


Clint Loves April Fool's Day

by Mireborn



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint thinks he's funny, Gen, POV Clint Barton, Prank Wars, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Revenge is Sweet, so does the soda, the donuts need a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 09:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18519049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireborn/pseuds/Mireborn
Summary: If there's trouble in Avengers Tower on April 1st Barton is usually at the bottom of it - probably in the vents, gorging on donuts and soda, and laughing his head off.





	Clint Loves April Fool's Day

Clint Barton loves the vents at Avengers Tower. He can conceal himself for days within the network of tunnels, and nowhere in the building is restricted to him via their means. Tasha calls him a creeper, but he isn’t really. He just likes to observe people when they aren’t aware of his presence… ok… yeah… When put like that, he does sound like a creeper. Tasha might have a point.

Right now, Clint is sitting with his legs crossed comfortably in the vent above Tony’s workshop. He’s eating a donut and shifting his body side to side with the beat of the music Tony has on full volume as he works. Clint likes Tony, really he does; he especially likes his taste in 80’s rock. But he’d rather listen to it from the vents than be subjected to a blow by blow rundown of whatever project Tony is working on. That shit really interferes with his appreciation of the tunes. 

Swallowing the last of the donut, Clint chases it down with a sip of soda then grabs another from the box beside him. This one has chocolate frosting and he licks it off appreciatively as the song below changes from an AC/DC number to Guns ‘n’ Roses. Fuck, yeah… Chocolate frosting, soda, and 80’s rock - almost nothing better.

In the workshop below something crashes loudly to the ground. The music stops abruptly to be replaced with a chorus of creative curses. Clint’s brows raise – “cock juggling thunder cunt” – he likes that and is definitely gonna look for an opportunity to use it. Thanks, Tony… But it seems the fun is over now so he tucks his box of remaining donuts under one arm, the soda bottle under the other and shuffles back through the vents to his quarters.

Pushing open the vent above his sofa, Clint drops down onto the comfortable cushions, tosses his food and drink on the coffee table, and bounces up onto the sofa back to push the vent closed. As it clicks into place there’s a knock on his door. Sparing a wistful glance for his half consumed soda and box of donuts he goes to let whoever it is in. To be honest, they could probably walk straight in uninvited. Clint’s not sure his door is even locked – he can’t remember the last time he used it himself. Huh, locked… Well, waddaya know?  

Natasha is waiting outside, her lips curled into what Clint thinks of as her predatory grin. Wondering what he’s guilty of now, he gestures for her to come in and follows her as she makes her way to his sofa with a subtle swing of her hips. Damn… he really must be in trouble. She only ever does the sexy walk when she’s trying to distract him from her intentions.

“So… what’s up?” he tries, as Natasha slinks past the coffee table and snatches up his last caramel filled donut. Aw, damn… and the caramel filled are his favorite. Stretching out across the full length of his sofa Natasha takes a generous bite of the donut, a string of caramel dropping onto her chin as she chews. Clint blinks as he follows the trail of caramel from her chin to her lower lip. Damnit… he knows exactly what she’s doing, so why does his dick fall for it every time?

“Got any plans over the next few days, Clint?” Natasha stares him right in the eyes as she swipes up the caramel trail with her pointer finger then sticks that finger in her mouth slowly to suck on it.

“Ah… no?” Clint manages, tugging on his pants in a failed attempt to make them less tight in the crotch region. “Why?”

“No reason.” Natasha shoves the rest of the donut in her mouth and chews deliberately, brushing her hands together to remove the powdered sugar. “You should probably keep them free, though.” Pulling a knife from god knows where, she uses it to clean her fingernails, before standing and tapping Clint on the right shoulder with the flat of the blade. “Just a friendly warning.”

Shit… Clint blinks once and when he opens his eyes she’s gone. Exhaling noisily he flops down on his sofa, then stares in dismay at his empty coffee table. Damnit! Widow stole his snacks! 

                           

* * *

 

Much later, when he’s sprawled across his bed, with another box of donuts and a second bottle of soda hugged against his side, Clint realises what the strange interlude with Tasha was about. April Fool’s Day. Just about his favorite day of the year. A broad grin brightens his face and he chuckles. He should really have expected that visit. Especially after his resounding triumph last year. Licking the powdered sugar off his second caramel filled donut he relives the success of that day.

Clint isn’t a computer programmer’s jockstrap but he’d fiddled with the software of the robots in Tony’s workshop, resulting in them spraying the billionaire genius with motor oil every time he cursed. Because he isn’t as stupid as he looks Clint had also built a firewall to delay Tony correcting his fun. The workshop had been covered in motor oil and sticky toffee for 48 hours before Stark had worked out a solution. Granted, a large part of that time had involved Tony repeatedly showering and changing his clothes.

Banner was much easier to prank. While Bruce slept Clint had replaced every container of white powder in his lab with bicarbonate of soda. The resulting foam-splosion had been glorious, covering the lab and Bruce with a sticky, light pink residue that smelled like burnt sugar. Bruce had gone green about the edges and smelled like a cotton candy machine for a week.

Of course, pranking Thor had to involve messing with his precious hammer. The Asgardian was nothing, if not, predictable. Whenever he stayed in the tower mewmew (Clint could never pronounce the ridiculous name right) would rest on a stone pedestal in his quarters. Clint had bought the strongest, quick setting superglue on the market, slipped into Thor’s quarters as the god left a sparring session with Rogers, glued the pedestal to the floor, and slathered the top of it with the remaining glue. He’d just escaped through the vent overhead when Thor returned, dropping mewmew in its customary place. Clint had instructed Jarvis to record the resulting meltdown. Thor had squeaked, paled, and almost passed out. He’d then cursed out his father for a solid twenty minutes before he’d reached out in frustration and pulled so hard that he’d lifted not only mewmew but the pedestal as well. Some of the expensive flooring might have been damaged too, but that was just an extra win in Clint’s mind. An oil and toffee covered Stark in a full-blown argument with an angry god had been awesome. Clint still played that recording sometimes to lift his spirits on dull days.  

Pranking Rogers had required advanced planning and knowledge Clint had acquired by accident months before April. Steve was a closet Britney Spears fan. Clint had been in the vents above the super soldier’s quarters when he heard the unmistakable lyrics of _Baby One More Time_ sung in a tuneful baritone. Peering down he’d discovered Steve dancing in nothing but his boxers, using a broomstick as a mic. Fucking goldmine! Clint immediately conscripted Jarvis to record every time Steve played Britney Spears, and the footage had been more plentiful than expected. Rogers wasn’t a half bad dancer really, and his singing was on point. Clint had settled on two recordings, both equally embarrassing, he hoped. Steve singing and dancing to _Baby One More Time_ and _Oops!... I Did It Again._ Hacking into Steve’s email account at around midday on April 1st he’d sent both recordings to everyone on the super soldier’s contact list. For part of what happened next, Clint really had to thank Tony as a truly awesome, unwitting co-conspirator.

Steve had been in the common area watching a movie with Natasha when his phone had started buzzing relentlessly. The super soldier had blushed all the way to the roots of his hair as he read through the emails stacking up in his inbox. Secure up in the vents, Clint had grinned broadly as Steve had pleaded with Natasha to delete any emails she received from him today. She had obliged with a quizzical frown, but it was all for naught when the movie on the big screen flickered away to be filled with a close up of Tony’s oil and toffee soaked head.

“Damn, Rogers,” the genius had said with a knowing smirk. “I never knew you had it in you.” And then his face had disappeared to be replaced with the recordings. Natasha’s eyes had widened at the sight and Steve had fled. The super soldier had been MIA for four days after that. Too embarrassed to face anyone, Clint had supposed.

Clint had huddled in the vent above Tasha’s bedroom at dawn on April 1st to see the result of his prank on her. He was quite proud of his success as it was nearly impossible to pull one over on the Widow. Tasha had been sleeping when he’d dropped soundlessly into her bedroom. She thought he didn’t know about her microscopic laser light security bites at the opening of every vent access point into her quarters. It was gonna suck to be her in the morning. With ninja stealth Clint had put itching powder in the crotch of all her knickers, making sure to replace everything exactly as it had been. Tasha was no slouch and would notice if a wrinkle was out of place. He’d half expected for his prank to be discovered, but instead, he’d been met with the utter hilarity of the sight of Natasha Romanoff, feared Black Widow, hopping madly across her bedroom for the bathroom, scratching violently at her crotch, and shrieking curses in Russian. He’d had to avoid her for almost a month after, but it had been totally worth it.

Clint finishes his donut, polishes off the rest of his soda and puffs up the pillow beneath his head. He has three days to decide how to hit them even harder this year. Rubbing his hands together in glee he chortles. Oh… This is gonna be good.

                                    

* * *

 

April Fool’s Day is not starting well. Clint squints painfully at the time displayed on the screen of his Stark phone and discovers he’s overslept by an hour. Oh well… fuck it… his head feels like a pressure cooker that’s being whacked repeatedly by mewmew, so oversleeping is the least of his concerns at this point.

“OW!” Clint declares emphatically to his empty bedroom, then pouts at the resounding lack of sympathy. God must really hate him to ruin his favorite day of the year like this. With his eyes resolutely closed Clint drags himself out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. He finds the toilet after ricocheting off only one wall and counts that a win all things considered.

Clint peels his eyes open a fraction and studies his reflection in the mirror, sure he’s gonna find some evidence of head trauma, but aside from being a little more pale than usual he looks no different. Fucking headache bullshit… Coffee! Coffee will fix it. In Clint’s experience, a good coffee fixes anything.

Leaning on the counter in his kitchenette, Clint presses his fingers into his temples with a groan as his state of the art coffee machine gurgles beside him. The heavenly smell of freshly brewed coffee soon fills the air and he snatches up his mug eagerly as soon as the machine has finished filling it. Clint is sure he’s never consumed a hot drink so fast in his life. The coffee burns a path to his stomach but Clint barely notices over the incessant pounding and pressure in his head.

“Muthafucker,” he hisses, resting his elbows on the countertop and bending in half to press the heels of his hands against his eyes. For a minute the counter-pressure feels good, then a sharp spike of pain behind his left eyeball makes him yelp. “Sonofabitch!”

Within fifteen minutes the pain and pressure ease a fraction and Clint declares this particular battle won by the coffee. Seeking to win the war he returns to his bathroom and pops open his medicine cabinet in the search for painkillers. Fuck… nothing… I was sure I had a bottle of aspirin in here at least.

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, Agent Barton?”

“Is Bruce awake?”

“Dr. Banner woke at seven thirty and left the tower at eight.”

“Well… fuck…” Clint slides to the cool tiled floor with a resigned sigh. So much for getting some meds off the jolly green giant.

“Might I make a suggestion?”

“Knock yourself out, Jarvis.” Clint doesn’t expect much of a solution out of the AI but at this point, he’s willing to try anything that might get his day back on track.

“When Sir gets his headaches he rests with an icepack. It seems to get him up and running again before too long.”

“Ok. Thanks.”

“I’m happy to be of assistance, Agent Barton.”

Knowing there are icepacks in the freezer in the common room Clint drags on a pair of grey sweats and makes his way there. Part of him is hoping for an audience so he can get some sympathy, but a larger part of him hopes the room will be empty. His head is hurting too damn much to deal with noise.

The common room is empty when Clint arrives. Where the fuck _is_ everybody? As he opens his mouth to ask Jarvis, a spike of pain jabs behind his right eyeball and he forgets the question in a haze of pain.

“Gah…” For a second he thinks he might pass out but he makes it to the freezer and yanks the door open desperately. Merciful god… success. Clint snatches up the icepack and stumbles towards the sofa. Grabbing the blanket draped over the back of an armchair he throws himself down on the comfortable sofa and pulls the blanket up to his chin. Once comfortable he presses the icepack to his forehead and sighs in relief. The cold does help. The pain recedes to a throb in his temples and he groans at the sweet relief. Within a minute he falls asleep.

                                    

* * *

 

“Clint? Hey, Clint? You alright?”

“Mmmph?” The icepack has slid down over Clint’s eyes and is resting on the bridge of his nose. Lifting the icy heaven he tries slowly opening his eyes, pleased to discover his headache has reduced to a bearable dull ache and the pressure is gone. Through sleepy, blurry eyes he finds Rogers looking down at him with clear concern etched on his brow. “Bad headache,” he supplies, waving the icepack in his hand as though that explains things. “Feels better now.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Clint scrambles to his feet and returns the icepack to the freezer. “You need me for something?” His eyes are still a bit blurry so he scrubs at them as he closes the freezer door.

“It’s not important. I was gonna practice with my shield for a bit and wondered if you wanted to join me.”

“Yeah, sure.” Clint enjoys these target practice sessions with Steve. Tony has a gigantic shooting range three floors down which he and Steve set up with multiple targets over the walls and ceiling. They then race to see who can hit the most targets in a set time period. Currently, Clint holds first place and he’s keen to retain it. “I’ll meet you down there once I’ve grabbed my bow.”

* * *

 

By the time Clint reaches the floor that contains the shooting range he is properly worried. His eyes are still blurry and no amount of water or rubbing has changed that. To add to his woes all the muscles and joints on the left side of his body are complaining. Have I had a fucking stroke or something? Jesus Christ! Pulling out his phone he tries to call Bruce, but the call rings out without connecting. Damnit, Banner, where are you?

“You sure you’re ok?” Steve’s appeared at the door to the shooting range, the concerned frown back on his face. “You don’t look so hot. I can help you back to your room. You look like you’re gonna pass out any second.”

“I’m fine.” Clint’s aware he’s slumped against the wall and his legs are trembling. If the wall wasn’t there he’d probably be flat on his ass, but Rogers doesn’t need to know that. How dare he stand there looking so fit and healthy on Clint’s ruined April Fool’s Day? It should be a crime, damnit. Fucking serum potion bullshit. Bet he’s never had a headache since he came out of the freezer. Asshole…

“I’m helping you back to your room,” Steve declares as he takes a firm hold of Clint’s right arm. “You’re gonna shoot yourself in the foot the way you look right now.”

“Fuck you. I’m fine.” Clint yanks his arm free. “I’ve been shooting arrows since you were in diapers, Rogers.” Steve’s lips twitch in obvious amusement and Clint shoves him in the chest, but the super soldier’s as immovable as a goddamn mountain.  “Screw you, you know what I mean.”

Mustering what is left of his dignity and pride Clint stomps into the shooting range. Fuck it. If this is to be his last hurrah before a brain aneurysm takes him, then he’s gonna wipe the floor with the super soldier’s ass.

                                    

* * *

 

“I want it on record that I hate you all,” Clint grumbles, his arms folded across his chest in disgust as Tony plays the recording of his poor performance on the shooting range earlier that day. Everyone ignores him. Too busy laughing at his expense. Fucking pricks.

“This is my favorite bit.” Tony fast forwards to the part where Clint spins, shoots an arrow that lands a mere foot away, then falls on his ass, whacking himself in the head with his bow as he goes down. The billionaire is laughing so hard he’s crying. His amusement is plain cruel.

“I prefer this part.” Steve snatches the remote and rewinds to the section where Clint fires five arrows at once and they each land a foot below their intended target. Meanwhile, Steve’s shield loops through the shot, takes out each target, loops back, and takes out Clint’s arrows in the wall. Steve’s loud guffaws are followed by him slapping his own chest as he throws his head back with a wheeze of delight. Fucking show-off…  

Clint feels his phone buzz again in his pocket and glares sourly at Natasha fucking Romanoff, who apparently hacked his email and sent this footage to everyone on his contact list.

“I. Hate. You,” he tells her very loudly and succinctly. Tasha just grins at him, unrepentant, then returns her attention to the video on the big screen before them all.

“You know what _my_ favorite part is?” Bruce takes off his glasses, polishes them, and sets them back on his nose. “That Clint never once considered thinking twice about engaging in a prank war with a billionaire genius, a man with seven Ph.D.’s, an enhanced human and a Russian superspy. He really should have realized he was biting off more than he could chew.”

Gathering what little remains of his tattered pride Clint stalks out of the laughter-filled common room and stomps back to his quarters. How was he supposed to know that Bruce would devise a bio-agent to fuck with his muscles and joints? Bruce just doesn’t seem like the type to seek revenge. How was he supposed to know that Tony would find the time to build a piece of microscopic nanotech to fuck with his eyes? The man’s usually neck deep in Avengers projects or upgrading his suits. And Steve… Captain fucking America, playing him for a chump… That was unprecedented. Angel boy definitely has some previously untapped cracks in that halo of honor and righteousness.

Ok… So Tasha putting Banner’s bio-agent in his coffee machine and injecting him with Stark’s nanotech while he slept? That he should have reasonably foreseen. Assuming he’d thought Banner and Stark capable of their inventions first, that was. Which he hadn’t… So there…

Clint heads to the pantry for some good, old fashioned comfort food and pulls out a box of plain donuts and a bottle of soda. The soda isn’t chilled, but desperate times call for desperate measures. With his bounty in hand, he flops on the sofa and settles in.

They’d given him antidotes… eventually… and he was feeling much better, but he couldn’t help wishing just one of them was sorry for putting him through all that. It really wasn’t fair the way they had ganged up on him. It’s not like he’d had any help last year, after all. Well… at least Thor didn’t join the Team of Betrayal. That’s a positive.

As though the very thought of Thor summons him, the god appears in a blaze of blinding lights that startles the ever loving shit out of Clint. The box of donuts flies one way, soda fountains out of the bottle clutched in his hand, and Clint is ashamed to admit to himself that he lets out a high pitched squeal. Fuck that rainbow bridge bullshit!

“Ho ho, Friend Clint,” Thor bellows in his customary fashion. “I see you have spilled your food and drink. Is this not a marvelous prank for your Midgardian festival of tricks?”

Clint blinks as he surveys the mess that remains of his soda and donuts - and the large Asgardian symbol burned into both the floor and his coffee table - and sighs heavily.

April Fool’s Day – Bullshit day. He fucking hates it.

 

      


End file.
